Through the Lens
by MissRenthead
Summary: A RENT fan fiction. Following the life of Mark Cohen after RENT...It will get very dramatic, I promise.
1. Having a Bad day?

**Through the lens**

Having a bad day?

Through the lidded slits of his eyes Mark could see the mirage of dancing lights. The sunlight's harsh glow pierced through his pupils and its heat penetrated his body. There were persistent beats drumming within the flat - what the hell was it? Irritated rappings clouded his ears.

"Mark, get the fucking door." There was a muffled mumble from the other side of the wall. Roger's grating voice. Mark swiped his eyes tiredly and pushed off the sheets of his dormitory bed. The knocking grew louder - incessant. Mark pulled his clothes on, each legarthic movement emphasised with a great yawn.

The door never stopped vibrating with the knocks as he padded across the apartment floor. Threads of sunlight sliced onto the floor. With one final languid stretch, Mark swung open the door.

The girl instantly withdrew her hand, and rubbed her raw knuckles self-consciously. She frowned at him.

"Mark Cohen?" Her voice was apprehensive, tinged with sarcasm. She looked impeccably professional; she had a black saddle bag slung over her shoulder, black military jacket and her dark eyes were stern. Her ebony face scrutinised him.

"Yeah..." Mark said, still yawning. He was having a rough morning, and all he could do was think about crawling back into his bed and wait for the hangover to wear off.

"I'm Tyra Walker," She said. Mark's face flashed incomprehension. "The photographer?"

"What?" Mark's voice came out louder than intended. His throat was definitely burning.

"Didn't Alexi tell you?" Hope stepped inside the room of her own accord. Mark was stunned by her boldness. Her eyebrows arched dangerously and her hands came to rest on her petite waist. "You're having a photography session today."

"W-what?" Mark said in disbelief. "Alexi never told me..." He cut himself off. He had been incredibly drunk last night - but he vaguely remembered receiving a message from Alexi. Cautiously, he approached the answering machine and pressed the flashing button.

"Mark, Alexi Darling here. The photographer will be at your place one o'clock sharp tomorrow, to promote your new film. I hope that you will be professional because I hired the best photographer I could find..." Mark closed his eyes. Fuck. "...and she agreed this would be the only time that she could take photographs of you. Don't screw this up, Marky."

Mark desolately switched the answering machine off.

"I have a very tight schedule." Tyra pursed her lips and checked her silver watch. She flicked the sleeve of her jacket back onto her wrist. "Call me when you're ready." She walked out.

Mark rested his head in his hands and breathed in deep.

"Who the hell was that?" Mimi entered from Roger's room, kimono barely covering her bronzed body. She walked over to the tabletop and swung a cold mug of coffee to her ruby lips.

"I don't know." Mark said tiredly. Mimi's bright eyes smiled at him.

"Milk." She slung open the small fridge, which was half broken, and threw him a carton of milk. "See you later." She glided back into Roger's room, making sure to shut the door tightly behind her. Mimi might dance in a strip club, but she preferred privacy in her relationships.

Mark's eyes stung as he rubbed his temples. His eyes closed in fatigue, yet his animated heart pumped intoxicated blood to his brain, each throbbing pulse smashing against his head.

"I'm having such a fucking bad day." He muttered to himself. He slid down to the floor and rested against the leg of the table, partly hidden in the shadow of the furniture.

He flicked off the lid of the carton and brought the lukewarm box to his lips.

The carton was empty.


	2. What the hell?

What the hell?

The raw air hit him like cold water. Mark drew the collars of his jacket up and stiffened against the breeze. The little house structures of China Town swayed dangerously in the wind, tawdry trinkets adorning them. Further down the road, a cluster of people weaved in and out of the central market - shouts ensuing every stall. Every so often, Mark would feel the fabrics of his garments shift by people colliding into him. The density of this area was so high it was almost like an ant hill, figures milling around lazily. The reddened sky was already beginning to take the form of evening; cirrus clouds streaked the sky and the egg-yolk sun glared over the tops of the building.

Mark lifted his camera to his eye and began to shoot. The colours and people were garish - but he liked their raw callousness. The buildings were lacking in paint and plaster, little shards of glass lay at his feet. He swerved his camera round and it came to rest on a stall selling counterfeit watches. He observed the man for a few minutes more, fascinated by his marketing techniques.

"Excuse me - how much is this?" A slim, sun-bedding woman. Her mouth hung open wide, round like a puckered O. In the swelteringly hot weather she had put on a skimpy vest and skirt. Mark imagined folds of saddlebags underneath her clothes.

"Trenty dollahs." The aged Asian man spoke. His accent was heavy, but he spoke in clipped tones. His eyes snatched the woman's heavy handbag, the way she looked at the watch.

"Twenty dollars?" The woman repeated. There was a hint of disbelief in her voice, but Mark knew that she would not argue. After all, she was a blatant tourist. He imagined her from Texas. She would be a housewife - wealthy, not doubt. In the afternoons she would invite over her friends to bitch about her husband.

"Trenty." The Asian man said firmly. Mark zoomed in on his face. It was tight with closure; he was not going to change his mind. The woman seemed to calculate something in her head, her mouth hung even more obscenely open. Her hand reached for her wallet.

"Twenty." She pulled out two crisp notes, twenty dollars. The man took it and offered her the watch. The woman slipped it on her bony wrist and flashed him a smile. He smiled in return, but only Mark saw his laughing shake of the head after she had left the stall.

"_Excuse me_." An exasperated voice. A girl bumped up behind him. Mark turned around sharply, causing the girl to drop the stack of boxes she was hauling around.

"Oh god, I'm so" -Mark scrabbled around the floor, picking up items which had fell out of the boxes- "so, sorry."

"Yeah, I said 'excuse me' like a million times." The girl muttered under her breath, roughly shoving the watches and jewellery into the battered boxes. Around them, the crowd moved in, almost crushing the two with their claustrophobic presence.

"Look, I'm sorry." Mark said again, noticing the bitter tone in the girl's voice. "It was an accident."

"People like you don't accidentally ignore people like me." She snatched up the boxes, once again piling them on top of each other precariously.

"Hey, watch the accusation." Mark said angrily, holding up his hands. Then his expression cleared. "People like me?"

"You know, just forget it." The girl spoke shortly, obviously pissed off. The man Mark had been filming earlier hobbled up to her, almost knocking over the boxes once more. A stream of raucous, angry Chinese poured out from his mouth, and he boxed her on the side of her head. The girl did not respond, and the old man simply returned to his place at the watch stall.

"Chloe! Come on, you lazy bitch." It was a younger man, face like an agitated pug. He stood by the old man at the stall.

"No, tell me." Mark protested. "People like me?"

"Do I have to spell it out on fucking paper?" The girl screamed, half angrily, half sobbing. "Or are you blind to what just happened?" Mark noticed her eyes were round and brimming with tears. Her dark hair covered her face, and she started to walk the other way, back to the stall.

"Hey, you vant necklace? For your girlfwiend?" An old lady approached Mark, holding a glittering chain. What girlfriend, thought Mark half amusedly. But he simply shrugged her off without a word and pushed his way out of the crowds.

Once he escaped the heady forest of China Town he knocked his head against the wall. How many more people was he going to piss off in his lifetime?


	3. We're getting somewhere

We're getting somewhere

"Mark, help me!" Maureen's voice dwindled in the empty café. Mark look up nonchalantly from his seat by the window and stared into Maureen's probing eyes.

"It's already set up." He said heavily. Tiredness consumed him. Maureen jumped giddily around the cylinder amplifiers and various microphones.

"It looks ugly." She said, frowning. "Please, Marky?" She thrust her hands on her hips and faced him from the stage, tresses of brown hair coveting her face.

"There's no other way to set it up." Mark repeated. Still, he pushed himself off the seat and ambled over to the stage. "And don't call me Marky."

"Mark. Please."

He groaned inwardly. Maureen's voice had taken on a softer edge, less whiny. She always knew how to break him down, inside out. Being her ex-boyfriend had made him feeble, and he heated it.

"Fine." He gritted his teeth, and began to assemble the equipment in a more 'decorative' order.

"Thanks, Marky." Maureen giggled behind him. He looked at her - she was twirling a silken lock of her hair around her finger. She knew she had complete control over him, and she was enjoying her power.

"Maureen." Clipped tones interrupted them. Joanne stood in the doorway, radiating with professional finish.

"Pookie!" Maureen leap of the stage with boundless energy and bundled herself in Joanne's arms. Mark desperately tried to ignore them as he set up the equipment again. Their relationship twisted him, coiled him like a damp cloth. Roger had Mimi. Maureen had Joanne. He knew he should be embracing his solitude, like Collins, but he was simply not one to seek isolation. Even as a youngster, he generally felt less awkward in the presence of his friends and community.

"When does the show start?" Joanne inquired.

"In about ten minutes." Maureen replied excitedly. She seemed not to acknowledge Mark's existence any longer.

"The first stage show at the Life Café - and they picked you." Joanne said proudly. She took Maureen's lily white hands in her own, soft as butter. Maureen simply smiled, a dazzling gesture.

"Chosen by force." Mark muttered under his breath, so soft only he could hear it. Maureen was not a favourite with the Life Café - after she had infamously mooned several times in the presence of other guests. Yet with persistence she had convinced Mark, Roger and Collins to speak for her.

"Uh, Mark, the little yellow wires are showing." Maureen commented, her tone deadpan. She was locked in Joanne's embrace. Mark impatiently stuffed the wires behind the stage and threw up his hands.

"I'm all finished here." He stated, and carefully picked his way through the tables to retrieve his camera.

"Oh," Maureen sounded shocked. "No, you can't go! Everyone's coming to see the show!"

"I can't." He sighed and rolled his scarf twice round his neck.

"Why not?" Joanne entered the conversation. Her voice was undeniably protective, as if she were afraid to Mark criticising Maureen's talent.

"Because..." He trailed off. There was no actual valid reason. He was simply emotionally exhausted.

"Hey! Where're all the people?" Mimi burst in, followed by Roger. She sashayed to the bar.

"Hi, everybody."

"Good to see you here."

Mark stepped back from the speaker.

"You invited Benny?" He hissed at Maureen. She shrugged at him and ran through the growing crowds.

Benny. Benny. Great. What the fuck was Maureen thinking? Mark looked on as he sipped his glass, his hands smoothly gripping the surface of the bar. There was a woman standing near him, her eyes focused with disdain. Allison Grey of Westport?

"Hey, Mark." Collins appeared beside him. He looked resigned.

"Hi," Mark said, taken aback. He hadn't seen Collins outside since Angel passed away. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm doing okay. Maureen's big night, you know. I had to come." He displayed a wry smile.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Maureen took centre stage, her face shiny with anticipation. "Thank you for joining me tonight. I hope you enjoy the show!" She clasped her hands over the microphone. A steady rendition of 'We are the champions' bleated out from the speakers, and Maureen began to sing along.

Mark and Collins stared wide-eyed.

"Are you coming in or going out?" A new voice. Mark's head was beginning to spin from all the different voices that filled his head. He noticed that him and Collins were standing awkwardly close to the doorway - the breeze slipped inside as he pushed open the door.

"We're staying." Collins finalised. He looked at Mark. "Aren't we?"

"Well-"

"You again." The new voice tunnelled from a girl. She stood opposite them, with a tray balanced on her hip. Her hair was piled high on her head. "Don't bother answering. No need to waste your breath on me." Mark realised she was the same girl from Chinatown - she looked different. Somehow her face had hardened, and she looked bitter instead of furious.

"What the hell is your problem?" Collins looked down at the girl.

"My problem is me." She said simply, accepting it as if it were the least complex statement in the world. "I'm everyone's problem, yet they don't see me." She rolled her eyes drastically and turned herself around, walking back towards the kitchen.

"What?" Collins shook his head in disbelief. For Mark, comprehension dawned. The girl looked different because her eyes had changed. They were no longer naked, vulnerable. He had noticed her defiance.

"Mark! Sit down." Roger pushed his way through the crowds and called to him. He gesticulated for Mark to come over. Dazed, Mark ignored him and clicked on him camera. After a few shots of Maureen (who had now began to sing 'Like a Virgin'), he left Collins and strode with purpose towards the kitchen.

"Joe! Joe!" The girl's frustrated shouts were captured by Mark's camera. She was lifting a tray of food and obviously needed help.

"Here, let me." Mark felt the urge to help. He slid his camera carefully on the tabletop and helped her lift the heavy tray.

"Thanks, I-" She looked up. "Piss off."

"Why do you hate me so much?" They carried the tray slowly across the kitchen.

"I never said I hated you."

"You didn't need to say it."

"Chloe! The customers are waiting!" The manager screamed through the door.

"Coming!" Chloe yelled back, hurriedly settling the tray down on the table.

"I thought you worked at Chinatown." Mark stepped back from the table and fidgeted with his scarf. He was intrigued by her behaviour, mystified by her spite.

"I thought you were going to get out." She fired back, skimming pastries off the tray onto clean plates. A shaft of hair fell down from her bun and she hastily pinned it back with a hairclip stuck in her apron. Mark noticed a spreading bruise on her hairline. It was deep prune purple in colour, with wearing green edges.

"Hey, what's that?" He wanted to touch her head, but couldn't. Instead, he pointed, feeling like a ten year old.

"What are you, an interrogator?" She snapped. "I don't even know who you are."

"I'm Mark." He said in a lively voice, to deliberately oppose her sombre one.

"Why are you so persistent?" She looked straight at him. "Are you doing a project on declining Chinese culture or something? On your camera?" She placed sprigs of rosemary on the plates. Her eyes rolled upwards for the second time that evening.

"No." Mark said, smiling to himself. He picked up his camera and studied it. "But you did notice that I had a camera. We're getting somewhere." He waved at her, infuriatingly, and walked through the kitchen doors back to his friends.

"Fucking asshole." Chloe said, but she was smiling a little. A half smile, lips curving.

"Chloe! For god's sake, woman, what is taking you so long?" The manager entered the doors, looking flustered.

"Sorry." She muttered, picking up the tray. She sighed half amusedly as she walked through the double doors into the Life Café.


End file.
